Mother

Sweat drips down my back, black shirt sticking to my skin. My hair – long then – glued to the fabric with the salt, my palms bleed fluid onto the handle of her shovel. Lift the dirt. Drop it. Repeat. I drop the garden tool, and push the wheel barrel down the hill in my backyard. Push it up. Repeat. One week and two days later, small pebbles, a pond and snapdragons lay where the dirt once did. My mother stands triumphant near the crab apple tree. Smiling, she thanks me.